


Mr. Eames and The Third Eye

by AvocadoLove



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Magic, Sad, Supernatural Elements, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AvocadoLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a near fatal reaction to a bad somnacin mix, Eames wakes up with the ability to see auras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the past 12 months I have been harassed on a consistent basis on my LJ, the Kink Meme, A03 and ff.net. 
> 
> I have asked this person to stop multiple times, and one such time resulted in an attack that the Mods on the KM had to shut down. They have continued to stalk me every time I post a chapter of anything else with harassment to finish this fic with it's promised happy ending.
> 
> And you know what? I tried not to let it get to me, and I just really hoped they would stop. I promised that I would finish this WIP... and I'm sorry, but I just got a new message the other day and I can't anymore. I'm freaked out that they won't leave me alone even if I do what they want and I CAN'T. I wanted to finish this fic, but at this point it would be rewarding them for making me stressed and unhappy. I'm sorry to everyone else. I'm sorry I've let one asshole ruin the fic, but every time I open up the document I feel sick inside.
> 
> This story is complete with a sad ending and it's because of you, my stalker who goes by Non_Nonny. I hope you're finally happy. Please leave me alone.

It happened because Eames was too arrogant, too cocksure of his own invulnerability after serving out a stellar service in the special forces with hardly a scratch. He was twenty-nine years old, handsome, sharp as a tack, fit, and a bloody brilliant point man, if he did say so himself.

Dream share was still in its absolute infancy, with chemists having to calculate dosages by weight and metabolism with a calculator and more than a little guesswork, rather than a PASIV device to do it for them. No one had yet considered the possibility of a dream within a dream – stabilizing one long enough for a basic extraction was still hard enough.

So when Murphy, a chemist Eames had worked with on several previous jobs, asked for a volunteer to test his newest compound, Eames immediately stepped up. It was his job, after all: first in, last out, and whatnot. Also, he was a bit hung over from the night before and could use a nap.

He remembered, later, Murphy's bruised eyes and drawn face, like he had just come from a bender himself. At the time, it hadn't seemed to matter. Murphy was a chemist, a smart man. He knew what he was doing.

"Sweet dreams," Murphy said as he depressed the plunger.

Eames didn't remember the dream, or even if he did at all. The next thing he knew, he was waking up flat on his back on a cold concrete floor, his chest aching like he had been punched and a sour taste, like vomit, in his mouth.

"Jesus, mate." Rollins the extractor's voice come out in a relieved breath. A hand was curled around the back of Eames' skull, pillowing it from the floor. "We thought we lost you there for a minute."

"What?" Eames asked. His voice sounded muzzy and far off to his own ears. He cracked open his eyes only to squint them shut again. Everything was too bright, too _loud_.

"You had a fit," Rollins said kindly. "Don't move just yet. I had to do chest compressions on you when... Well. Just lay back for a minute."

Murphy's voice filtered in from further off, high with panic. "It's not my fault. There must have been something off in the compound itself – Hawkley fucked me over in the ingredients. It's not my—"

"Shut it!" Rollins snapped, silencing him.

 _I nearly died?_ Eames thoughts were coming a few beats too slowly. He tried opening his eyes again, instinctively wanting to check over himself for damage. The light was still very bright, but he blinked through it to see Rollins' concerned face hovering above him.

But there was more.

On one level, Eames saw Rollins as he normally would – a pale, slightly doughy Scotsman with kind eyes and a rather wide gap between his two front teeth. At the same time, however, he saw _more_. Deeper. Now there was a low red light surrounding Rollins: a haze that radiated from his skin. As Eames watched, Rollins' brows pinched together, and the red haze about his head darkened to purple.

"Eames," Rollins repeated, and Eames realized he'd called his name a few times. "Eames, stay with us. Murphy! Quit your pissing and moaning and ring for an ambulance. I don't think he's come quite out of this."

"We can't. They'll draw his blood, and they'll see—"

"See what? What the hell did you put in there?"

Rollins absently batted away Eames' hand as he reached to touch the red light. His hand went through it without connecting. It felt like nothing at all... but it was there, wasn't it?

A shadow fell over Eames and he forced his eyes away from Rollins to see Murphy kneeling over him. He, too, had that odd sort of depth. Only the haze surrounding him was a roiling sort of green – a sickly color, shot through with brown. There was something _wrong_ in it somehow, and Eames heard himself slurring, "No..." as Murphy, with syringe in hand, darted forward.

Eames felt a sharp pinch to his bicep, heard Rollins and Murphy arguing over him... and then, for a long time he heard nothing at all.

  


* * *

  
Six months later, Eames was a different man.

Rollins and Murphy never called for a doctor, deciding that the risk was too great and allowing Eames live or die on his own, sleeping it off in the back-room of the warehouse. It took two days for Eames to get back on his feet, and as soon as he did he scarpered off without so much as a goodbye. Rollins was a decent sort in his own way, but every time Eames laid eyes on Murphy and the green-brown haze that surrounded him, he _knew_ there was something diseased in his soul.

Some years later, he would hear rumors of a nightmare chemist who tested on his team members, sometimes without their knowledge. The chemist killed three men and a woman before someone wised up and put a bullet in his brain. No names were mentioned, but Eames had no doubt it had been Murphy.

But that would be later. It was another three weeks after Eames' near-death experience to get all of his coordination back. The odd haze, the auras that seemed to surround people, never left.

He'd thought he'd gone mad at first. It was as if his mind were assaulted by a vibrant multi-color rainbow every time he walked down the street. Even his land-lady's cat had a strange glow about it – buttercup yellow with swirls of white like a child's lollipop.

Eames tried at first to ignore the oddity and get back to his life, but it was difficult when he could watch someone's expression change at the same time the part of the aura – usually about the head – would darken or lighten or, occasionally, become a different color all together.

It was impossible not to make connections between certain personality traits and colors. Reds were more outgoing, while indigos were loners. Browns were deep thinkers, darker greens were connivers, lighter greens were generally more of the spiritual type – more motherly, for lack of a better word. But it was more than that: a difference of hues that Eames could not fully put into words, but sensed as much as saw. No two people had the same coloring – not that he tried to look very hard.

He was half certain he was insane, and half convinced that maybe he was some type of experiment gone wrong, thanks to Murphy.

Worse yet, with his mind in such a turmoil he was all but useless as a point man. Eames' concentration was shot to hell now that he could read and watch his team members emotions literally play out over their auras. He spent more time observing them than doing his bloody job. His projections had become almost deranged as a reflection of his own inner anxiety. They tore his team apart twice before the extractor – a man with a fluid blue aura like running water – fired him.

So Eames fell into drinking.

It didn't stop him from _seeing_ , but if he was pissed enough, he could stop paying attention for awhile. More and more often, he could accurately guess what people were about to say, before they said it from the color of their shifting aura. He found he had an insight into their thoughts, could _see_ when they spoke the opposite of what they felt. Friends he had known since they were young enough to get whippings for cutting class were no longer the people he knew. Or, they were, but he saw them differently now. He could see their lies. Their desires.

For a few months it was fascinating. Then, by slow degrees as Eames learned to read the real person underneath, it became terribly disillusioning.

Eames was stumbling home one drizzly, cold November night, shivering and clutching a coat around his shoulders which was too thin to keep in body heat. He hadn't worked in months, and thrown most of his savings away playing cards. Trying to forget.

If the dealers were honest – and he could usually tell now when they were – and he was drunk enough not to be able to read the other players, it was a mostly even playing field. There should have been satisfaction in being able to tell when someone was dishonest or bluffing, but the challenge, the _thrill_ of the game was gone when he was sober and everyone was like an open book.

The problem was, he was a shit player when he was drunk.

Somehow, Eames found himself in an unfamiliar part of town. He stopped, wavering slightly, and had to brace himself against the stonework to keep his balance. The rain dripped icy rivulets down his neck, making him shiver all over again.

He didn't know where he was, and didn't feel up to spending his last twenty pound note on a taxi ride home.

Eames was just considering curling up in a deep doorway and sleeping it off when he happened to glance up at a flickering sign set over a shadowed door that read:

 

PSYCHIC READINGS AND PALMISTRY

  


He would have discarded it – he didn't believe in that nonsense even if he was now seeing auras – but for the hand-drawn illustration above the sign: an outline of a human form, and above that, a shading of colors surrounding the figure. It looked was very much like an aura.

Eames found himself stepping into the little storefront without making a conscious decision.

Inside was a grubby little waiting room with a single counter, two chairs, and an old fashioned cash register set to the side.

"We're closed!" yelled a voice from the other side of a closed doorway.

"I need..." Eames' voice cracked on the word, and he stopped. He didn't know what he needed. A knock on the head to set him right again, like in the cartoons, perhaps? A mental institution? Somewhere with padded walls, and where everything was white and septic and there were no more people-colors to haunt him?

A woman, dark and rotund, bustled out from the doorway, clearly intending to throw him out by his ear. Then she stopped and stared at him. Eames stared right back.

Her aura was unlike anything he'd seen so far: like a pure, white, shimmering net of energy. It seemed reflect the myriad of colors in the room, taking them in and reflecting them all at the same time. It should have been discordant, but it was beautiful.

"Please," Eames said again, and dug into his pocket for his last twenty. He held it out to her. "I need help."

Thin silver strands weaved through her aura as she registered surprise. She turned with an abrupt, "Come" and led him into the adjoining room.

The next room was a claustrophobic little set-up, dominated by a table with an honest-to-god crystal ball on it. Eames sat in the chair indicated, while the woman squeezed herself in on the other side, settling a purple shawl around her shoulders.

Eames couldn't stop staring at her. "You can... _see_ me?" he asked, with slight emphasis on the word.

"Yes," she said, curtly. "And you see me?" She waited for him to nod before adding. "You've the eye."

"... Sorry?"

"The eye. The eye!" she repeated and reached over, tapping a long painted nail to the center of his forehead. "Some are born with it. You came to it late, yes? I know. You have the look."

"I..." he swallowed. "I think I died." For months he had been blaming whatever drug cocktail Murphy had pumped into his system, but that had been an easy excuse. Much more frightening was the thought that, for a few minutes, he had been... _gone_.

Her aura shimmered as looked at him with pity in her eyes. "It happens that way for some. You were brought back, yes? Then you see."

"Yes," he breathed, and for the first time since this ordeal started, Eames felt a surge of hope. "How can I stop it?"

"Once the eye opens, there is no way to close it." She must have had some insight to his despair because she took his hand in hers. "It is a gift."

"It's ruined my life," he snapped, and to his horror he felt tears threaten, born of long months of fear and frustration. "I was a solider – No," he amended, knowing she would see at once he wasn't being truthful. "I was a thief, and I was very, very good at what I did. Now I can't work – I _see_ people I thought I knew... my friends..."

She nodded, patting his hand. "Things are different once you see your friend's true inside. But you can still be a thief – a better one." Her smile was sly as she indicated the room where they sat. "You think I actually read futures?"

Eames closed his eyes. "Somehow, I don't think the life of a psychic is right for me."

"Then be something else." She flicked her free hand in the air. "You see people as they truly are. Use it. Politics, acting, healing... all are open to you."

"I don't – hold on, acting?"

Again, her smile turned sly and the way the silver once again rippled through her aura made Eames suspect she had been leading him towards that. He could see all of her – presumably, she could see all of him as well.

"You don't know," she said. "Tell me, what color is your aura?"

"I don't know," he said, honestly, because when he looked down at himself he only saw skin, as he ought. Mirrors didn't reflect auras, and neither did cameras.

"No one can see his own inside," she said. "But I tell you a true thing: yours is like mine. Crystal, some call it, but I think it is more like a mirror. We reflect what we see. We can tune it, too. Focus it, sharpen it... You practice some, and you see."

Eames shook his head. He saw how her aura's hue deepened as she spoke, and felt the weight of the truth reflected in her words, but that didn't mean he understood. "I'm not mad... or insane?" He felt like a little boy asking a question like that, but the last six months of self-doubt had stripped him down to his bare bones.

"You are sane." She assured him, and reached up to pat his cheek. "At least as much as the rest of us, yes? Keep your money." And she pushed back his fist, still clutching his last twenty pound note. "There's no charge for one of our own."

 

* * *

  
As little sense as the psychic's words made when he was half-drunk and nearly at the end of his rope, they made even less sense once Eames had sobered up.

Still, it was a great comfort to know that he was not suffering some sort of a breakdown, and that he was not alone.

He took the next job that he could – again as a point man, though he was the first to admit he hated dealing with all the little hundred details that went into making a successful job. His talent had always fallen into keeping people safe down in the dream, not administration work, which was usually a point man's other duties. It was worse now that he found himself distracted by people around him, and not on the computers and maps in front of him.

This time, however, there was a new addition to the team: someone his extractor had called a forger.

The forger himself was a pompous ass, and his aura reflected that by glowing a deep royal purple. Yet Eames noticed at once that there was something different about the quality of the aura. An almost reflective, crystalline sharpness to the edges. It reminded him of the psychic's aura, although much less intense.

When the team went down into the dream to do a walk through of the maze, Eames watched carefully as the forger crafted his new identity. People carried with them their auras into the dreamscape, although projections only had vestiges of some, or none at all.

When the forger screwed up his eyes (like he was going to take a shit, Eames thought, rather uncharitably) and became the rather handsome woman that was the mark's wife, Eames saw a shift in the aura as well. The crystalline edges became a somber red in a close approximation of the mark's wife – though it overlaid the royal purple and clashed horribly.

"Keep up, boy. This is how you forge," the man, now a woman, had sneered as he caught Eames staring.

_"We reflect what we see. We can tune it, too._ "

The words returned to Eames as loudly as if he were hearing them all over again.

"Right," he said, and strode over to a nearby window front. It was dark inside the store, and Eames could see his own reflection in the glass. He imagined the mark's wife – how she looked, but most importantly the specific _red_ of her aura, with its burnished hues around her head. She was like red velvet, that one, aged but still beautiful.

And with a mental twist he wasn't aware he could do until that moment, he made her color, his.

Eames turned to the forger, raising a finely plucked eyebrow. "Is that it?" she asked, and her voice sounded the exact double of Mrs. Hermann. "You made it sound difficult."

The forger sputtered – it had taken weeks for him to manage what Eames had done in seconds – and his thin veneer of the Mark's wife cracked and fell away.

Eames never worked as a point man again.

* * *

  
Over the intervening years, Eames refined his techniques. As he his observations continued, it became easier to see subtle shading in auras and find, by trial and error, what exactly they meant. He gained new contacts and friends - people with whom he didn't know before he could _see_ , and therefore he knew what he was in for.

Slowly, he started to see what he had as a gift, not a burden. He even started to enjoy gambling again, though there was still more sport in it when he was drunk

They called him the most talented forger in the industry, and they were right. He liked being the best – it allowed him to be choosy with who he worked with. In an industry where double crossing was as easy as reporting into a local embassy and selling out one's teammates for immunity and cash, Eames was never once caught flat-footed.

One memorable occasion had him working with a husband and wife extraction team out of Paris. They were a young academic type. The man, Dom Cobb, had vibrant purple tone – like the petals of an orchid – indicating he had a bright mind and a large ego. Strings of lighter green were strung about the head and the heart, however, which told Eames that there was a caring side to the man.

His wife was the far more interesting one, and the reason he'd agreed to take the job. Her aura was a pure, delicate shade of light pink, utterly unblemished. Whatever she felt affected her coloring in an even tone like a unflawed gem. It lit the room wherever she went, and when her aura touched her husband's, the green within him seemed to shine with its own light.

They were a fascinating duo, and as soon as he could Eames planned on stealing the PASIV for a few hours to practice with the colors on himself.

He was sitting in the workroom with Mal Cobb as she told him of the concept of a dream within a dream, when his ears picked up the sound of Cobb speaking from the other room, and a low answering reply.

Mal beamed. "That will be Arthur."

"Oh." Eames relaxed back into his puffy armchair. "The point man he told me about?" Cobb's aura had radiated enthusiasm when he talked of the final member of the team, and a certain amount of paternal pride. Eames suspected that the former professor had brought his favorite student into the business.

"You will love him," Mal told Eames. It sounded a little like an order. Her delicate pink aura deepened a few shades into a maternal, rosy coloration.

Dom Cobb stepped into the workroom at a brisk pace, already in the middle of his introductions and clearly anxious to get started. "Arthur, this is Mr. Eames who will be working as our forger for the job. Eames, this is Arthur."

Eames half rose, extending his hand, some bland greeting already on his lips. When Arthur walked into the room, however, all thought was washed away.

By that time Eames had seen thousands of auras, and tens of thousands of their various shadings and patterns. No two were exactly alike, true, but many were very similar to one another.

Arthur... there was nothing usual about him.

His aura was simply the most beautiful thing Eames had ever seen.

* * *

  


  


  


  



	2. Chapter 2

 

Cobb's newest point man's aura was gold.

Eames had seen golden auras before, on rare occasions, but none quite like this. Arthur's was the shade of burnished honey, but with a richness Eames had once only seen in a hundred-pound-a-glass finely aged Tokay. Whorls of bronze made a graceful marbling pattern through the lighter amber, giving the impression of both depth and competence. And all of it was backlit by a low, almost indefinable glow coming from within.

For the first time since he had learned to _see_ , Eames wanted to run his fingers through that aura, find how that complex gold felt against his own reflective nature.

It took a few seconds to realize that the man underneath was rather fetching, as well. He was dressed in a three piece suit, as neat as a new pin, and young – although Eames still balked a little inside at identifying anyone around twenty-five as young – with brown, neatly combed back hair, matching brown eyes and a handsome, if serious, face.

"I'm—" Eames was about to introduce himself, then remembered belatedly that Cobb already had. "Pleased to meet you, Arthur. I've heard good things from Mal, here."

Arthur shook his hand in return and smiled politely. The bronze marbling moved through the amber aura in a slow shifting pattern, never the same from one moment to the next, as if the man was taking in details of his environment and actively thinking. "Likewise," Arthur said, expression betraying nothing. Then he turned away from Eames, all business, and pulled out what looked to be a thick dossier to hand to Cobb.

He had a nice ass, too, Eames noticed. He returned to his seat, feeling a bit clobbered.

As Cobb started the initial meeting, outlining what the client wanted from them, the job and the main objectives, Eames found himself listening with half an ear: he would pick up what he needed later on.

 _Gold_ , he thought, rolling it around in his mind. Its rarity sprung from the union of two opposites: yellow, which belonged to confident, outgoing, and unconsciously sensual people: those who took the world in by touch, and delighted in the use of their bodies. Athletes were usually yellow. And strippers. The second color was brown, which usually meant the person was a deep thinker – bronze hues in particular were stanch loyalists with an engrained sense of honor. Odd to find that in a criminal.

Arthur's eyes flicked to his, catching him staring, and his eyebrows went up as the complex whirls of his aura rippled in surprise. Eames looked away first – not because he was intimidated, but because he could sense Mal watching the two of them. He didn't want to give her any ammunition for an 'I told you so' later on.

 _I could grow to like this one,_ he thought.

 

* * *

 

The Cobbs were nothing but ambitious, and although the job could have been pulled off without a dream-within-a-dream scenario, the very idea of two levels was more than enough to keep Eames interested.

Arthur's presence was icing on the cake.

He was utterly fascinating to Eames at first: nearly inscrutable with professional calm on the outside, but brilliant with nuances of research – as if every small detail stuck and was absorbed by the honey aura.

Arthur also acted as an effective buffer between the Cobbs' lofty ambitions and what the team could realistically accomplish. Mal and Dom dreamed big – Mal from her pink optimism and Dom from his more egocentric purple – and Arthur essentially brought them down to earth by ruthlessly pointing out flaws in any given plan.

He was fun to tease, as well.

Eames wasn't certain when was the last time he indulged in so much pigtail pulling, but Arthur at least returned as well as he got, and it was lovely how his aura would light up from within as he caught onto a carefully lobbed bit of innuendo. Arthur's expression would hardly give anything away to the usual observer, but Eames was anything but usual: he could watch for hours when Arthur was deep in thought, when the bronze whirls would become more prominent and slowly swirl, ever changing, like watching clouds drift across the sky. Or when Eames hit upon something particularly witty, and he could tell Arthur wanted to laugh, but restrained himself out of professionalism: the honey backdrop would lighten to nearly the color of whipped butter.

Eames dearly wanted to hear Arthur laugh -- see what the effect of a moment of true joy or arousal would do to that aura, but the prep time was depressingly short for a job of this sort. They were all rushed for time.

In the end, it all went cock-up, anyway.

It wasn't anyone's fault. The idiotic client had sent them off on the wrong mark: a man who didn't have the information. That was easy to see, even from the first level.

So while it hadn't been their fuck-up, there was no such thing as fair consideration in the world of corporate espionage. They were still on the line for a failed job, and it was prudent to split and run in case the wrath of the client fell down upon all of their heads.

Eames helped Arthur with a brisk cleanup of their workspace while Mal and Cobb cautiously updated the client and tried to salvage what they could.

For once Eames was focused on his task and doing his very best to block out the rolling, upset colorations around him. So, when he heard Arthur curse low under his breath, he didn't look up as he asked, "What is it?"

"I was counting on us having more time," Arthur said, voice edging in frustration. "Afterwards."

"More time for what—" Eames started, and was taken utterly by surprise when Arthur pulled him around by his sleeve. He caught a flash of almost orange ocher – Arthur, when he had his mind determined on something he wanted. Then Eames ceased to think at all as Arthur kissed him.

It was a firm press of lips against his – half challenge and half question. Eames grunted in surprise, but when Arthur would have moved back, he pressed forward and curled a hand about the back of Arthur's neck to steady him. They kissed for long minutes: Eames half sitting upon the desk and Arthur moved in between the vee of his legs. Arthur still tasted of whatever mint toothpaste he'd used that morning, and Eames could almost feel the brush of the honey aura against his own – surprisingly warm and sweet, like a lover.

A small, but pointed sound of a throat being cleared interrupted them, when Eames had just gotten around to mussing up Arthur's perfectly slicked back hair.

Dom Cobb stood in the doorway, eyes looking everywhere but at them, and the green streaks through his aura alternated between generalized anxiety and older brother protectiveness.

 _That's right. I'm well on my way to fucking your boy_ , Eames thought almost gleefully, and did not completely remove his hands from Arthur's person, even when the other man reluctantly pulled back.

Arthur's expression was remarkably composed as he faced Cobb. "The client didn't take the news well?"

Cobb shook his head. "We need to be out of here in fifteen." His gaze fell to Eames as he added, "It would be safest if we all split up."

Arthur nodded, and Eames felt his heart sink before he could correct himself: he was a realist, and as much as he enjoyed sex... he did enjoy not being shot much more. He could move faster alone, in any case.

"Right," Eames said, as Arthur pulled compleatly away and went back to sorting through the papers. Eames could almost see him exercise the same type of control over himself – the bronze darkening to cover the newly lit amber glow from within.

"Until next time, darling?"

The thick honey in Arthur's aura flared in bright amusement, there and gone again, but when he spoke his voice was flat and disapproving. "I'm not your darling, Mr. Eames."

"Not yet." No doubt he would be shortly running for his life – again – but for now Eames was feeling good. Giving a jaunty wink, he turned back to finishing the stash and burn of all identifying information before he headed on out.

 

* * *

 

  
Sadly, it was more than a year and a half before he had opportunity to work again with the Cobbs and their point man. Eames suspected that Dom Cobb's protectiveness of his protégé had something to do with it.

The job itself sounded little on the routine side, but Eames was growing bored of the streets of London, and he'd always heard that Southern California was lovely in the winter.

There had been no rumors of any further jobs gone bad from the Cobbs, nothing to indicate there would be any problem at all. So Eames was nearly blind-sided when he first stepped into the small warehouse Arthur had rented to be their workspace, and caught his first sight of Mal.

Where Mal's aura had once been a perfect shade of pink through and through, there was now a ragged crack running diagonally down the middle – a single imperfection in what would otherwise be a flawless gem.

She smiled at him. "Mr. Eames, it's been some time." She held out her hand and her aura lightened a shade in genuine pleasure at seeing him – or rather, half of it did. The bottom half of the crack, where the cut through her heart, didn't react at all.

It took all of Eames' skill as a forger to plaster a polite smile on his face and settle himself in to listen to the debriefing. But he thought it would have been obvious to anyone, even if they didn't have the Eye, that something fundamental had changed in Dom and Mal Cobb.

Dom carried himself with a new weight now – his own reactions slow and unsure as if he weren't sure he was functioning in the right body. He fumbled separating the dossiers twice before handing them out. Mal looked utterly separated from the events in the room, as if she were merely a spectator watching a well rehearsed play. The top half of the schism was present, but the bottom half roiled with a deep-seeded anxiety and... _anger_ that had certainly not been there before.

Arthur looked unaffected as always, thank god. His golden aura still marbled in its understated beauty. Eames wasn't sure what he would have done if he, too, had altered. Beat the ever loving crap out of Dom, most likely. It would have been like seeing a fine work of art destroyed.

Eames waited until the meeting broke and Dom went to ask his wife a question before he pulled Arthur to the side.

"What the devil's happened to them?" he asked, lowly.

Arthur shot him a surprised glance, then his shoulder's slumped. This close, Eames could see faint worry tightening the skin about his eyes. "Not here," Arthur said.

He and Arthur went out for lunch a few hours later, and by that time Eames was more than happy to leave. He had developed an itch between his shoulder-blades whenever Mal looked at him. The crack in her aura was hard and sharp, reminding him of a blade of a knife. It was something dangerous, and set every internal alarm bell he had to clamoring.

Arthur was evidently familiar with the neighborhood and steered him to a natural foods café, where they took their seat at an open-sidewalk table.

"What do you know about limbo?" Arthur asked.

Eames didn't think that he meant it in the catholic sense. "I've heard the theory," he said, watching closely for the tells in Arthur's aura. "Unstructured subconscious? Sort of a boogieman story if you've got a daft architect who builds with gaping holes?"

Arthur shook his head, and the corners of his lips downturned as his aura seemed to pull back in on itself. Like an internal shudder. "I don't know what happened for certain. Dom only talked about it right afterwards, and Mal... well. They were experimenting with deep levels again, but didn't bother to put anyone up top to watch." His hand clenched briefly against the table top, self recrimination plain on his face. "They went one level too far, and fell in for a very, very long time."

"How long?"

He shook his head once – a quick, angry gesture. "Dom said something about them growing old together. So thirty, forty years? Maybe more."

Eames sat back in his chair. "Oh Hell."

 _But Arthur was wrong,_ he thought. _Or he hadn't been told the full truth._ Auras did tend to change over the years, as life's experience left its mark on a person. Mal was like a broken thing, though. Something fundamental within her had... changed.

Their waitress came by, leaving two ice waters and a bran muffin apiece upon the table along with the menus. Eames found he wasn't very hungry at all.

Neither was Arthur, judging by the way he only glanced half-heartedly at the menu.

"That's a very long time to be trapped down there," Eames said, keeping his voice casual. "I imagine it would be easy to lose yourself, like that. Arthur," he said, after a moment, "Do you suppose they still think they're caught up in the dream?"

Arthur's eyes jerked to his, and the silent _yes_ was plain to see even without the Eye.

 

* * *

 

  
Overall, it was an uncomfortable job, made very much worse by the fact that, two days before they were scheduled to take the mark, a shadow appeared over Mal's aura.

Eames had seen such appearances before – patients in hospital, mostly, although one time in the aura of an unlucky police officer walking the beat – and it always foretold of death.

And, judging by the way the darkness slowly advanced over what had once been flawless pink, it was no more than a few weeks away. Perhaps a month, at best.

"Arthur," Eames said, after the job was over and he was once again assisting with the clean-up. There was no after job make outs this time around – Arthur was much too anxious with worry over his friends and Eames had been unsettled enough not attempt at anything other than casual flirting. "Should... anything come up," he gave a significant nod to the Cobbs who were having an intense discussion on the other side of the room. Dom's aura was laced with growing fear. "Feel free to contact me."

"I don't anticipate that our next job will need a forger." Arthur gave him a tight lipped smile, and Eames could see that his mind was far and away on other matters. Well, he had tried. And Arthur couldn't know what was to come.

The shadow was over Mal, alone. At least, whatever was to take her was not going to kill her husband or Arthur.

Eames tried not to feel like a coward as he packed his bags and left on first flight he could book.

One month to the day, he got the call from Arthur.

 

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Depending on which story one was inclined to believe, Mallory Cobb had either jumped to her death after unsuccessfully attempting to manipulate her husband to do the same, or she had been pushed out a window from several stories up by a unhinged husband who had previously threatened her on several occasions.

Eames had the ability to see into a person's true nature, but he wasn't omnipresent and he couldn't predict the future... or see into the past for that matter.

He knew which story he believed: the love he'd seen between Mal and Dom had been a true thing, but whatever had happened on the night of Mal's death had left Dom a changed man. Eames didn't think he had killed his wife, but he could _see_ at once that Dom wasn't entirely guiltless, either.

The orchid purple that had dominated Cobb's aura had become almost soupy with grief and self-directed hatred. The lighter greens around his head and heart had altered as well – no longer the nurturing glow it once been. Those too had darkened and turned inward, like veins pumping into his core.

Dom Cobb was now a man who would shortly become selfish in his grief. Men like that alternately flagellated themselves with their pain, like martyrs, and took what they could from the world, believing it was owed to them.

Had his aura been nearly this ominous when they'd met, Eames would have never taken that first job with him. Cobb was a bomb waiting to go off.

Arthur's aura, as usual, drew Eames' eye even amongst a rainbow of others attending the funeral. True, the honey and bronze looked rather washed out from sadness, but watching it – _him_ , through the service was oddly comforting.

"Thank you for coming," Arthur said, after the rites were over and friends and family were milling about, consoling each other.

Eames disliked attending funerals, and especially so since he'd learned to _see_. Being subjected to a roomful of grieving colors for hours on end was enough to give him a splitting headache, and occasionally nauseous.

He had only showed up because Arthur had asked it.

"It was the least I could do," Eames said, leaning casually against the wall. "How's Cobb?"

Arthur sighed and reached up to scrub at his face with the back of his hand. The bronze flared through, loyal to the core, but so did frustrated flashes of burnished orange.

"Ah," Eames said, before Arthur could answer.

Arthur looked sharply at him. "What?"

"You believe Cobb is about to do something stupid." Eames smiled at Arthur's look of blank surprise. He normally didn't show his hand like this, but someone like Arthur would appreciate straightforwardness. Besides, he had his reasons for wanting to remind him that he was the best forger in the business for a reason. "It's quite plain in your body language, if you know what to do look for."

His brown eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't deny it. "I _know_ he's about to do something stupid," Arthur corrected, pitching his voice low. He took a half step closer and Eames caught a whiff of some spicy, expensive cologne. "The police have been asking questions, but I've spoken with a few lawyers and there's not enough hard evidence for them to swear out an arrest warrant. Not yet."

It didn't matter, Eames knew. A man like Cobb, so torn with guilt, would look for any reason to run away from the pain. He would keep searching for someone to tell him what he wanted on some subconscious level to hear. Then, once he did, he would take the excuse and run.

And Arthur, with the bronze marbling in his aura shining through so brightly it might as well have been a noble shield, was too loyal not to follow along.

They were both idiots, in their own way. It annoyed Eames because he knew he ought to know better: he already knew what the outcome would be, so why did he insist on trying?

"Why don't you just ask me what you've brought me here to ask?" Eames said, weary suddenly with the game of it all.

Arthur did him a favor by not denying it. He met his gaze, square on. "Dom can build dreams like no other architect in the business, and he's one of the greatest extractors for getting into people's heads. You're the most talented forger we've ever worked with, and I'm damn good at my job," he said, without a hint of self consciousness or pride. "We could make a good team together. The best."

For the space between one breath and the next, Eames considered saying yes.

There was more to Arthur's offer than what appeared – probably more than what he himself knew. It was all there around Arthur's heart: a brief glimpse of a shard of white crystal aura. Eames' aura.

Eames glanced away, feeling for the first time in years that he had seen something that he shouldn't have.

He focused instead on Cobb, sitting by himself in the opposite corner of the room, ignored by angry, judgmental silences by those around him. Eames saw the tells in his aura – he had the same sickly shade of green that Murphy the chemist also had.

"There's a team forming up in Newport, Wales." Eames smiled, thinly. "Don't listen to what others tell you, it's a fantastic city. I could show you the sights."

Arthur didn't have the Eye, but somehow was able to see right through him. "But there's no room on that team for Dom," he said, flatly.

"No."

"He didn't murder Mal. You—" Arthur stopped and glanced around to make sure he wasn't drawing attention. Then he lowered his voice again. "You saw how she was."

"Yes, and he has the look of one about to bolt because he's entirely innocent, hm?"

Arthur's anger didn't flash red hot as it did with most people. It was a slow burning thing, as if the honey and bronze aura encapsulated any rage; keeping it close and contained, but no less dangerous.

Arthur stepped close to Eames. Right in his space. "You don't know Dom like I do. He and Mal made a mistake by dropping into limbo. It killed her, and I won't let it kill him, too."

 _If you could see what I see..._

The words were on the tip of Eames' tongue, and he had to work to swallow them back.

"When he runs," Arthur said, mistaking Eames' silence for assent, "we'll both need your help. Will you come?"

"No, darling," Eames said, with true regret. "Not even for you."

Arthur's aura seemed to shrink briefly in on itself, but he only nodded once, sharply. He turned to go, but Eames caught his elbow.

"Arthur, you know me as a good forger."

"I just told you that," he replied, with no little bite to his voice.

The corner of Eames' lip ticked up. "Then you realize that I... _know_ what makes people tick." He squeezed Arthur's elbow briefly before letting his hand drop. "Cobb will get worse before he gets better. You can lay money on that."

Arthur's aura brightened, dimmed, and brightened again in a rapid mix of emotions. "Don't tell me that you're worried, Mr. Eames."

Eames wanted to kiss him. Wanted to drag him far away from this place – and bloody Cobb – and put him up somewhere he could be showcased and admired, like the exquisite piece of art he was.

"Play Cobb's keeper if you must, but keep yourself safe," he said, and his voice came out rough.

Arthur blinked, opened his mouth to answer, but then shut it again. When he smiled, it was a hesitant, but true thing. He had dimples on each of his cheeks. "Of course I will."

Eames left the funeral soon after. Despite the fact that he had never been in the business of helping people, or chasing after a lost cause when he saw one, this time there was no doubt about it: he _did_ feel like a coward for running away.

 

* * *

 

One of the advantages of having the Eye was the ability to know when someone else had it as well. On infrequent occasions, Eames would spot another white, crystalline aura walking amongst a rainbow of colors on a crowded street, or on the tube. Their eyes would meet, a little nod of recognition exchanged.

Sometimes it would go further than that, turning into a parkside chat or a drink shared in a pub. It was odd how Eames would seem to meet up with another like him, just when he needed it most. Or visa-versa.

The woman who was sharing a small, dark corner of the bar with him now was named Maria Ortega. She had thick black hair, a long nose and a lilting Spanish accent. Eames watched with fascination as shadings of other colors played out across her crystalline aura – reflecting the exact hues of the other patrons in the room, as if she were constantly testing out parts of others on herself.

"I had a... a very bad day at work," Maria admitted, after fiddling with a shot of tequila she had ordered but not swallowed. "A little girl came into my office today with a broken arm – simple fracture, you see. But God save me, she had the shadow over her aura. She's accident prone, I suspect," she added bitterly.

Eames winced. "What did you do?"

"What could I do? Tell her parents that their baby has a week, maybe two left? And that I didn't know how or why it would happen, only that it will? No." She shook her head sharply, almost angrily. "I patched her up, sent her on way and pray she has a happy rest of her life."

Eames thought of Mal, her death nearly six months passed. "Have you ever seen a case of someone outliving the shadow?"

"No." Maria's answer was immediate and final. She gazed sadly at her shot-glass, her aura tinting to grey in unhappiness. "They call me a great doctor because they think I can save impossible cases. They're wrong – I just can see which ones can be saved and which are doomed. I'm a fraud."

"All people are frauds to a certain degree," Eames said. "Most are just practiced in lying to themselves about it."

"Even you?"

He smiled. "Well now, I've never found much use in lying to myself."

Maria chuckled, though there was a sad note to it, and threw back her shot in one swallow. Feeling generous, Eames ordered them both another round.

"When I was ten, my parents, my little brother and I were in a head-on collision," Maria said. "I was the only one to survive. When I came out of a three-week coma..." she trailed off, but Eames knew without her saying: after she woke up, she found she could _see_. "You?"

"Twenty-nine, and a poor reaction to a somnacin compound," he said, because ever since that day the only ones he felt he could be completely truthful with was others like himself. Besides, Maria would be able to tell if he was lying.

She grunted in sympathy and they chatted amiably for another hour. Eames felt the alcohol settling, pleasant and warm in his veins. Maria was more striking than pretty, but everything about her spoke of a deep-seeded loneliness. "Come on up to my hotel room with me, love," Eames offered. "We can both unwind for a bit, yeah?"

Maria's eyebrows rose and her eyes flicked to his chest and back up again. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Jack. I can see that your heart's already been taken by someone else." His expression blanked in shock and she smiled. "Tell me about her – no," she amended, eyebrows going even higher as she saw some sort of shift in his aura. "Tell me about _him_."

Sometimes, Eames forgot exactly how visible he was, how easily others with the Eye could read him as he could read everyone else. "It's complicated," he said, and took a pull of his drink. There was no doubt who she was talking about, and that, too, came as somewhat of a surprise. " _He's_ complicated – he has a gold aura, you see."

"Gold." Maria's nose wrinkled in distaste. "I had a gold for a lab partner once. She was the most competent jackass I've ever dealt with. It was so aggravating... She was some kind of a judo blackbelt, too, in her spare time."

Eames found himself grinning foolishly, despite himself. "Yes, that sounds very much like Arthur. He has this bronze marbling effected laced throughout. It—" He had to stop, partially because he disliked sounding like a love struck teenager, half-sloshed or no, and partially because he couldn't seem to find the words to fully describe Arthur's aura – the richness and depth. How he could watch the bronze weave itself in with the amber and honey for hours, days, weeks without tiring. "It's remarkable," he said, quietly, looking again at the glass in his hand.

"To you, maybe," Maria's smile was crooked. "I once had a friend, another like us, who went on and on about his wife's aura. And do you know what color it was? Green. Not even an appealing shade – it reminded me of smashed peas. To him, though..." she trailed off, flicking her fingers. "He told me it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen."

Eames' eyebrows knit. Hadn't he thought very much the same of Arthur during that first job?

Well, it hardly mattered because Arthur and his striking aura were possibly thousands of miles away, following on the heels of a man who had self preservation foremost in his heart.

He did end up taking Maria to his hotel room that night, and didn't blame her when she kept her eyes closed, likely not wanting to see someone else in his heart as they fucked.

It would be nearly a year before Eames laid eyes on Arthur again.

 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

Eames spent the greater part of the next few months working out of his safe house in Mombasa. He'd always had a liking for overcrowded, hot cities. People who lived there were that much closer to the edge, and it cut down on a lot of bullshit. When someone wished to knife Eames in the gut, they usually said so to his face, instead of leaving him to deduce their intent by their aura.

Life was very much simpler that way.

He got in and out of a few scrapes, but it was nothing more than he could handle. He took a few dream share jobs on the side, kept his edge, and tried not to think very hard on what might have been.

From the rumors which trickled down through mutual contacts, Cobb and Arthur were having their fair share of troubles as well. They had developed a reputation of taking up dirty, high risk jobs that no one else would touch. It made Eames grit his teeth every time another story came down the pipeline:  it was one thing to take on high-risk clients, but the rewards should always be equally as high. As far he'd heard, Arthur and Cobb were living from job to job, and escaping some of those by the skin of their teeth. They were better than that. _Arthur_ was better than that.

Cobol Engineering practically owned all the major criminal cabals in Kenya, so of course Eames was made aware when the higher-ups put a steep price out on Cobb and Arthur's heads.

Wanted dead or alive was much more ominous than simply dead.  

So Eames was more than a little taken aback to see Cobb show his face in Mombasa of all places – though he tried not to show it – while Eames was busy seeding the casino there with his own forged poker chips.

A man who showed up in the heart of enemy territory was either desperate or insanely brave, and after a long look at Cobb's aura, Eames thought it was a little of both.

Cobb had not much changed since Mal's funeral. The grief was a little more sunken in, perhaps, the purple ego ground down by recent failures. But it was clear that Cobb was still willing to take chances, still saw all opportunity – and people – as a means to an end.

He proved it with his opening line.

“Inception,” Cobb said, and when Eames looked at him sharply, he added, “Don’t try telling me it’s not possible.”

It _was_ possible, or so the theory went. Eames had even been on a team that had tried it, once. When he said as much, he saw something flash through Cobb’s aura he had not expected: a bright ribbon of pure, unfiltered hope.

“That’s what I keep telling Arthur,” Cobb said.

The name was thrown out casually, but of course Eames saw the intent behind it.

 _You son of a bitch_ , he thought, but with more grudging respect than irritation. Cobb knew that offers of money would mean little to him. Eames had what he needed, and could easily gain more. No, it was the prospect of an interesting job that he craved, and of course his attraction to Cobb’s point man.

Cobb was dangling both out at Eames like a hook and a line, and God help him… Eames felt himself take the bait.

                

* * *

When it all went to Hell in the very first level of the Fischer job, Eames couldn’t even bring himself to be angry at Cobb for his betrayal. Not really.

After all, he knew it would happen.

The only positive he could find, while nearly being caught in the teeth of limbo and eventual insanity, was watching Arthur’s reaction: once Cobb's right-hand man got past the initial shock, he took it on the chin, like any good solider, and willingly went with Cobb to soften up Fischer in preparation for the next level.

Yet the bright sheen on Arthur’s bronze marbling – the loyal, protective glow he'd had regarding Dom since ever since Mal's death – faded. Whatever happened with this job, Eames knew that Arthur would still respect Cobb, still consider him a friend, but he was done being his point man.

That was very valuable information to have, indeed.

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a bit bigger, darling," Eames told Arthur, not much later, and watched honey and bronze aura flush in pleasure as Eames blew a sniper away.  
                  


* * *

What felt like days later, after fighting an endless army of Fischer's subconscious security in snowy mountain terrain, Eames got the satisfaction of not only waking up with his mind fully intact, but seeing Cobb successfully cross the border back into his home country. He left with an elderly gentleman, a bit wide-eyed, but his energies more fully at peace than Eames had ever seen from him.

He made a mental note to look Ariadne up after things cooled off, and learn from her the full story on what had happened between herself and Cobb down there.

The girl had a lovely aura of a clear, almost pristine blue. The pure hue one would see in deep-packed snow. Her aura had a similar sense of depth as Arthur's, but there were edges there as well – razor sharp, and nobody's fool. She would be a devastating extractor one day, should she stay in the field. And unlike most, she had been wholly untainted by her brief jaunt in limbo.

Eames pulled his gaze away before she could catch him staring, and walked to stand patiently in line to collect his luggage.

Afterwards, he sensed more than saw another pair of eyes on him as he joined the queue for a taxi.

"How long do you plan to stay in the country?" Arthur asked, melting from the crowd to appear by Eames' side. As if by magic.

Eames glanced sideways at him, saw the intent shining out through Arthur's aura, and carefully hid a smile. "Why? I hardly think Cobb will need my services again so soon..."

Arthur shook his head. "Cobb's out of the business."

Eames raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. He knew what Arthur wanted by logical deduction, and of course from his aura, but he _needed_ to hear it aloud. Sometimes, a man just needed to know that he was wanted.

"I'm putting together a team," Arthur said. "I want you on it. I don't care what it takes, Eames. Name your price."

He stared at him. He hadn't quite seen _that_ coming, and it had been quite a long time since he was last taken by surprise. "You should really work on your negotiating skills, Arthur."

"I'm the type of man who gets what he wants," Arthur replied, stepping into Eames' space, his gaze laser-focused, and for the second time Eames caught sight of the white crystal shard of his own aura in Arthur's heart. The man still carried a torch for him, after all this time.

Eames felt a rush of affection sweep over him, as intoxicating as fine wine. "Let's discuss it over dinner, yeah?"

                      


* * *

They didn't make it to dinner. In hindsight, Eames knew they had let their feelings smolder too long to play at subtly -- something they'd started literally years ago.

The two of them climbed in the same taxi, and after letting Arthur give the directions to the driver, Eames leaned over to whisper something in his ear; maybe follow it up with a teasing peck on the cheek. Only Arthur turned his head, and Eames found himself kissing him like a man long starved of affection.

Arthur, if anything, was just as enthusiastic. And after they pulled back for a gasp of air, he called out a change of location to the driver: to the nearest hotel.

                      


* * *

Eames preferred to keep his eyes shut during sex. Or better yet, in a darkened room. It wasn't that he was a selfish lover – he'd just rather not be privy to instant, uncensored knowledge of his partner's every random thought and feeling. There was nothing that deflated a stiffy faster than _seeing_ that the person he was about to bed was secretly nervous or had ulterior motives, or worse, pretending.

Arthur, however, was different. The more sensual yellows and ambers, in all of their rich complexity, seemed to glow as he and Eames kissed, and divested each other of clothing. There was no fear, no ulterior motives other than the usual – he wanted to be fucked, which was more than fine with Eames.

"You're beautiful, darling, you know that?" Eames found himself blurting, arms boxing in Arthur to both sides on the mattress and sweeping his eyes over him – looking at him body and soul.

Arthur's cheeks and neck flushed with red with embarrassment, but gold in his aura brightened in obvious pleasure.

"I didn't peg you for being sappy in bed, Eames."

Grinning, Eames leaned over him. "You like it." Then he took Arthur's mouth against his, as he teased his thighs apart.

He could feel Arthur's answering smirk, and he went willing and pliant under him. Eames fingered him open with the greatest of care, delighting both in that Arthur was more than willing to verbalize what felt good, while his aura just as clearly _showed_ him.

Eames did shut his eyes, later, as he pushed in. Arthur's body yielded to him – as sweet and warm as honey.

                          


* * *

Four months later

 

* * *

Eames awoke to the sun shining in his eyes and a not entirely pleasant soreness to his lower back. Time was when he could have pulled an all night stakeout without any ill effect, but he nearing his late thirties and suspected that those days would soon be beyond him.

He stretched, limbs out like a starfish, and felt several vertebrae pop back into place. The other side of the bed was cool, and empty. Eames squinted open his eyes to see the blankets on Arthur's side pulled up to a perfectly squared pillow. Arthur usually woke first and came back from a morning run by the time Eames rolled himself out of bed.

Today, however, it was late even for Eames' standards. Arthur would be at the warehouse by now, and would be in a royal snit if Eames didn't show himself by at ten AM.

Odd, how that didn't bother him in the slightest.

Eames hadn’t been in anything close to a long term relationship since he'd acquired the Eye. He was still getting used to the particularities of arranging his life alongside someone else. It helped that, after four months, Eames still loved to look upon Arthur, and still found himself to be fascinated at what he saw.

Eames didn't rush through his morning routine, though he didn't dally either. He stopped at a local coffee shop for a bite, noted the interesting carrot-orange coloring to the baristas aura – he would have to try that out later for himself – and strode into the warehouse at exactly five minutes 'til ten.

Ariadne's desk was set up to the front, and she had her iPod headphones in as she carefully drafted out the first level. She looked up at his approach and grinned. "Watch out," she warned, "he's in a mood today."

"Is he?" Eames placed a cup of coffee for her upon her desk. He hadn't bought anything for Arthur as he had a dedicated coffee pot in the back room and by this time of day would be on his third cup. There was no need to encourage him.

"Something to do with the chemist, I think," she said, and paused to take a sip from the cup. "Mmm. Thanks."

Eames frowned, but Arthur would have called if it weren't anything he couldn't handle. Yusuf had been sadly unavailable for this job, and they had been forced to buy from local dealers. Quality came at both a price and hassle.

As if aware he was being talked about, Eames heard the door to the back room open and the distinct click of Arthur's well-made shoes upon concrete. Eames turned, a question on his lips... and froze.

Arthur walked towards them, the skin under his eyes a little bruised from the late stakeout and little sleep, his mouth pressed into an annoyed line.

The shadow swirled above his honey and bronze aura, as menacing as the hand of death itself.

                  


* * *

 


End file.
